I did grades 3 to 8 in the parish parochial school. We were sure the nuns went to high school with Martin Luther and were still holding a grudge because he wouldn't ask them to the prom.
But in seventh grade, we had a lay teacher *snerk*, an underpaid young woman who was timefully fond of white go-go boots in a town where at least half of the households were heated with coal. Now, I think she got off on discomfiting us shameful little wankers.
The next year, there was an underpaid young male lay teacher, also a sports stringer for the local paper. Someone started a very evil rumor (which we found
hilariously unbelievable) that he was trying to screw an attractive but fearsome girl in my class, from an upcoming family of lawyers.
About 10 years ago, a misguided parishioner who never attended the school herself sent out an alumni questionnaire. One of the questions was about any special memories from those years.
My father still goes to Mass there, so I just said "Arguing with the nuns." My cousin, a classmate who didn't bother to return the form, about choked on his coffee when I told him I considered telling them, "The time somebody started this rumor . . . ."